


Take the Rough With the Smooth

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Bottom Arthur Morgan, Crossdressing, Lingerie, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Algernon Wasp, concerned for his heretofore unassailable reputation as a sartorial conjurer, crafts a masterpiece in silk and lace for Arthur Morgan. There is only one other man he could imagine wearing it for.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	Take the Rough With the Smooth

**Author's Note:**

> I did not bother to complete Mr. Wasp’s missions during either my first or more recent subsequent playthrough, but I have been unable to erase the thought of Arthur Morgan in unconventional underclothes ever since the suggestion of a corset was proffered.
> 
> We’re simply not doing TB today (or ever, I expect), as this was written in the midst of a harrowing respiratory pandemic. I hope you will understand.
> 
> This work, like nearly all of my writing, has not been seen by eyes other than my own at time of publishing. Please forgive any errors. No, I don't know how to create compelling work titles.

Arthur stared at the box on his bed as though it had belonged to Pandora herself. It was so unassuming; stiff, white paper embossed with Algernon Wasp’s florid millinery seal. Inside, however, was no hat. He had felt a little badly for refusing Algernon’s gift, but the two men had agreed that Wasp’s vision—a garish white top hat feathered like a fusilier’s shako—was a little ostentatious for Arthur’s more provincial sensibilities. 

“All wrong,” Algernon had tutted, replacing the truly singular article onto its canvas mannequin and stashing the lot back behind his counter. “What a blunder, Tacitus, I’m dreadfully sorry.” He strutted over to his workbench and scanned the shelves, “but failure has opened my eyes! I see where my error lay and hope to rectify it.” He reached up and came away with a tape measure, which he brandished in Arthur’s direction as he crossed back into the front of the shop. 

“Algernon, what are you doing,” Arthur demanded, flustered. The other man hovered around him like a pixie, laying the tape across his back and in a few places around his middle. 

“Yours is a quiet sophistication,” Wasp continued, thoughtfully. “I see that now. I should have guessed you wouldn’t go for something so…” his hand fluttered in the corner of Arthur’s eye as he searched for the word, “forward.” Arthur felt the press of a pencil against his shoulder as the curious couturier took quick, sharp notes. 

“Listen, Mr. Wasp, I don’t want to impose,“ Arthur began, diplomatically. His appeal to formality failed to make an impression, as Algernon grasped his shoulders in a most familiar way when he ventured back around to Arthur’s front. He laughed.

“Tacitus, my good man,” he shook his head, fondly, “you must allow me to repair my reputation. Don’t worry, I assure you I’ll come up with something more suitable this time.” It seemed odd that Algernon was so insistent on making something for him, given how much he had been paying Arthur for his errands, but Arthur surmised that it would be futile to argue and allowed the gentleman to take the remainder of his measurements without complaint. He left the greenhouse a few minutes later, feeling befuddled and manhandled. Effete though he appeared, Algernon had been surprisingly firm, rough even. Arthur shook his head and relegated the encounter to the back of his mind, pausing in the lush courtyard to examine Wasp’s latest shopping list of rare and vulnerable flora. Thank God the money was good, Arthur thought. He stowed the list in his satchel and rejoined his horse in the street. Leda greeted him with a snort and he scratched between her ears. Wasp had offered to buy her on sight the last time Arthur had visited, admiring the lustre of her bright, white coat, which Arthur kept impeccably groomed in a streak of vicarious vanity. He had refused to sell, of course, not eager to see his gentle steed transformed into a chapeau for some minor Bavarian noble. He hopped into the saddle and steered them both in the direction of Shady Belle.

Arthur returned to Wasp’s greenhouse several times in the next few weeks, always arriving with a satchel full of flowers and feathers and leaving flush with cash, but he saw no sign of the man’s promised gift. He wondered hopefully whether Algernon had simply forgotten. On Arthur’s last visit, he had been quite preoccupied by the business of courting a contessa, offering Arthur perhaps his most tedious and involved scavenger hunt to date. When Arthur finally returned with the items days later, Wasp was inconsolable and tried to reject his offerings outright. He explained, waving a slip of fine stationery around as he spoke, that he had lost his love to another.

“A postman,” he wailed, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and burying his face in his shoulder. Arthur reluctantly comforted him, patting his back and offering what he hoped were encouraging words, though he had trouble mustering much genuine grief on the man’s behalf and took some offence at open disdain he held for his erstwhile lover’s unsuitable suitor. Still, Algernon paid Arthur for his trouble, and called after him when he turned to leave. “Wait,” he ducked behind the counter and retrieved a white, rectangular box wrapped in a royal blue ribbon. He slid it across the counter toward Arthur. “I’m sorry it took so long,” he said, beaming proudly. “I don’t make many of these, and the process is rather intricate.” Arthur made to move the ribbon aside, but Algernon caught his hand. “No, no,” he insisted, “don’t open it here. Not all of my works are designed for public display.” He winked, which made Arthur nervous, but he managed what he hoped was a sincere sounding thank-you. Algernon smiled again, even as his eyes remained bright with tears, and bid Arthur farewell with a bow of the head. Arthur tucked the parcel carefully under his arm and returned the gesture before making for the exit.

That had been two weeks ago, and still the box remained tied shut. He had laid it on the rickety bed in his room at the old manor and stared at it for the past quarter of an hour, standing across the room from it with his chin in his hand and a determined glower on his face, as though the thing was liable to spring to life and attack him. He had spent the better part of the last fortnight trying to determine through augury and guesswork just what might be inside, but to no avail. In all his experimentation, the only conclusion he could reach was that he would need to either open the damned thing or simply throw it into the swamp and put it out of his mind. He found himself slightly less satisfied at the thought of the latter option, and made up his mind with a defeated sigh. Impatiently, he tore aside the ribbon and swiftly lifted off the top. He stared down, puzzled, at the silk and lace corset which lay inside, and wondered if Algernon had given him the wrong box. He was soon disabused of that notion when he picked up and examined the small card lying atop a thin veil of tissue paper. It bore his alias and a brief but grandiloquent note of thanks. Arthur set the note aside, moved the paper, and lifted the garment in his hands, holding it up to the light. It was very fine, coloured the same rich, feminine blue as the ribbon on the box and accented with crisp, white fluting. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat as he ran his fingers over the delicate lace and liquid silk, contrasting the corset’s stiff construction. He laid it gently on his bed and turned his attention to the second part of the ensemble: a pair of thin, white bloomers which barely looked long enough to cover his rump. Again, he wondered if this had really been meant for him, before noticing with flushed cheeks their conspicuously roomy front panel. Despite himself, Arthur had always harboured an appreciation for fine things: silk vests, hair pomade—an affinity he attributed to two decades’ exposure to Dutch’s myriad affectations. He let his eyes and hands once again take in the gift, feeling dreadfully exposed, knowing that someone as apparently self-absorbed as Algernon Wasp had managed to see straight through to what Arthur considered his most private shame. He had yet to even share this side of himself with Charles, concerned that their courtship—still in its infancy—might not be able to withstand the extent of his perversions. This particular peculiarity had been with him for as long as he could remember, locked away with his other forbidden desires. He had spent the majority of his time with Mary coveting her clothes, staring jealously into her closet and imagining stuffing his broad, brutish body into her delicate night dresses. Arthur swallowed hard and, almost against his own will, found himself sliding his suspenders down his shoulders and undoing the buttons on his shirt. Before he knew it, he had disrobed entirely. Locking the door, he slipped on the bloomers, relishing the feeling of the soft, light fabric against his legs, only slightly diminished by the coarse hair that lay there. Next, he turned his attention to the corset. He approached the task carefully, having only ever removed such garments, hastily, from the bodies of working girls. To his relief, Algernon had included a small pamphlet of directions at the bottom of the box. He followed the instructions, snapping shut the closures at the front and adjusting the laces in back to the best of his ability. He left it a little loose, allowing himself room to breathe. Hesitantly, he wandered over to the mirror, keeping his eyes averted until he was ready. When he finally took in the sight of himself, trussed up in frills, his waist cinched in by whalebone, he gasped. He had expected to look foolish, like some sideshow bearded lady, but he found himself surprisingly taken with his image. He ran his hands down his sides, plucking at the hem of his shorts so they lay more symmetrically. He was astonished at the fit until he recalled how thoroughly Algernon had measured him. The sound of footsteps on the stairs just beyond his door snapped Arthur from his delirium, and he swiftly changed back into his day clothes, stashing the lingerie back in its box and sliding it under the bed. He escaped from his room, coming face-to-face with Dutch almost immediately. Arthur jumped, and the other man regarded him with curiosity and concern.

“You alright, son,” Dutch asked with the quirk of an eyebrow. Arthur felt his cheeks burn, equally exhilarated and ashamed. 

“Fine,” he insisted, “just…” realizing he had no excuse at the ready, Arthur simply brushed past and hurried down the steps. Dutch turned and watched him go, befuddled but amused. Arthur took on a purple tinge and was relieved when he strode out the front doors and felt fresh air on his face. With a deep breath, he centred himself again, pointedly ignoring the twist of desire that curled and burned in his gut and pushing all thoughts of softness and lace from his mind. 

Over the next few days, Arthur returned to the corset near-nightly, sequestering himself in his room and slipping into the delicate silk, spending what felt like hours admiring himself in the mirror or simply splaying himself out across his narrow bed and revelling in the smoothness of the fabric, enjoying the way it lay so gently against his own rough, ravaged skin. Eventually, he began to grow bolder, slipping on the culottes beneath his riding trousers and secretly wearing them throughout the day. The taboo of it was thrilling, tapping into a previously undiscovered vein of confidence within him that others seemed to notice, too. Charles, in particular, seemed to be enjoying the subtle change in his mood, commenting on it during an evening walk in the bayou.

“You seem different lately,” he said, steering Arthur against the trunk of a black gum tree, smiling as he placed a warm kiss to his chapped lips. Arthur grinned back.

“How’s that?” Charles shrugged.

“More relaxed than I’ve maybe ever seen you,” he replied, “I can’t exactly explain it.” Arthur laughed.

“I think I can,” he offered, wrapping his arms around Charles’s neck and pulling him close.

“Do tell.” Arthur leaned in and whispered in his ear.

“Go to the Bastille Saloon in Saint Denis tomorrow night at eight o’clock,” he instructed, excitedly, “Buy yourself a bath and ask the girl what room Mr. Callaghan is staying in.” It was a routine they had practiced many times before, and was perhaps a bit more complicated than necessary, especially in a city as liberal as Saint Denis, but Arthur knew the way that secrecy thrilled Charles. He felt hot lips against the skin of his neck and balled his fists in the fabric of Charles’s favourite blue tunic, suppressing a chuckle as the kisses turned to tiny, playful bites. He captured his lover’s lips again, mapping the other man’s mouth with his own until he felt a moan rumble through Charles’s chest. They broke apart, reluctantly, and agreed to save the rest until tomorrow when they would have the privilege of a bed. They strolled hand in hand back through the woods until they came to the edge of camp and staggered their return to camp so as not to arouse suspicion. Arthur returned first, and watched from the balcony as Charles casually wandered in a few minutes later, clutching a handful of plausible deniability in the form of a loose bunch of hummingbird sage.

Arthur arrived in Saint Denis in the middle of the afternoon and rented a room above the Bastille. Ordinarily, the place made him itch, his rough-hewn countenance clashing with the saloon’s opulent gentility. Today, however, bolstered by his hidden finery, he strode confidently through the doors, ordered himself an overpriced glass of whiskey and asked for lodgings and bath as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The bartender handed him the key to room number eight and directed him upstairs toward the amenities. He entered the bathroom and stripped, folding his clothes around the lingerie to conceal it and leaving them in a little heap in one corner of the room. Slowly, he lowered himself into the steaming copper basin, letting out a long sigh as he sank into the fragrant water. Arthur took his time in the bath, anointing himself with all manner of scented potions, soaps and salts. 

“May I offer any assistance, _monsieur_?” Arthur turned toward the lilting voice from the doorway; a young girl waited, expectantly, a welcoming and mischievous smile playing across her painted lips. 

“Not of that sort,” he replied, “but there’s two dollars in it for you if you do me a favour.” The girl let out a coquettish giggle behind her hand and strode toward him. Arthur gestured to his satchel, hanging from the post of a wooden, ladder-back chair. “I’m expecting a visitor in a few hours,” he explained. “I’d appreciate it if my key made it into their hands.” She tentatively dove her hand into the bag and found the key on its fob, regarding Arthur quizzically.

“This is something best suited for the gentleman at the bar, _non_?” Conspiratorial amusement permeated her tone. Arthur allowed himself a chuckle.

“If your barkeep is anything like the others I’ve met, I’d hazard he’s a bit of a gossip, and I like to keep my private business, well, private.” The girl laughed, then offered him a knowing smile. She twirled the key around her finger.

“How will I know your friend when I see him?” Arthur’s expression took on a slightly dreamy affect before he could stop himself.

“He’s hard to miss,” he said, “and he’ll ask for me.” 

“Very good,” she replied. Arthur told her to take her money from his bag and she thanked him before leaving him to the remainder of his ablutions. He basked for a few more moments, then towelled off and climbed carefully back into his clothes. 

As the hours passed and the sun sank low in the sky, Arthur’s anticipation began to morph into anxiety. He paced the room, second-guessing himself and cursing his own audacity. Charles was not a decadent man, preferring the simplicity of the natural world to the trappings of society of which Arthur found himself so paradoxically enamoured. Would he think Arthur effeminate, degenerate, disgusting? His stomach turned and flipped as he watched the bedside clock tick toward the crucial hour. His fingers drummed against the biceps of his crossed arms, his boot tapping dully against the varnished floorboards. After an eternity, a soft knock at the door jolted Arthur to attention. His skin prickled, hair standing on end as he heard a key turning in the lock. The door swung open and in stepped a practically sparkling Charles Smith, hair still damp from the bath and surrounded by the scents of sandalwood and lavender. Arthur jumped to his feet and Charles crossed the floor to meet him in a tangle of lips and limbs. They kissed feverishly, nipping and licking into one another’s mouths. Charles brought a hand up the back of Arthur’s neck and firmly grasped the hair at his nape, tilting his head backwards to dot a trail of kisses along his throat up to his ear. Arthur groaned ecstatically, but pushed him away when Charles made for his shirt buttons.

“Wait,” he panted. Charles stepped back, brow knit curiously. Arthur sighed. “I want to…” he hesitated, huffing out a nervous laugh, “I got something special to show you.” He turned away from Charles and began undressing, occasionally stealing a backwards glance to be greeted by an eager, curious grin. Charles was silent as Arthur’s clothes finally fell to the floor, and he was hesitant to turn around. He was relieved when he did, however, and saw the hunger in Charles’s face. His lover’s mouth hung open just slightly, his dark eyes glassy with want. Arthur laughed again, gesturing clumsily up and down himself. “What do you think?” Charles approached him carefully, reaching out to pull him closer, ghosting his fingers along the lace running along the top of Arthur’s bodice. 

“Beautiful,” he breathed, returning his gaze to meet Arthur’s. Arthur smiled and allowed himself to be wrapped up again in Charles’s grasp and gently forced backwards onto the bed. Charles ran his hands up Arthur’s thighs, spreading them apart that he might position himself between them. He climbed on top of Arthur and kissed him long and slow, propping himself up on one hand while the other ventured over Arthur’s culottes toward his burgeoning erection. Arthur moaned into his mouth as Charles grasped his still-clothed length and began to gently stroke. “You look good enough to eat,” he laughed, thickly, and ground his hips down against Arthur’s to demonstrate his own hardness. Arthur reached to pull him down against his body, but Charles backed away, slipping off the bed and down between Arthur’s knees. He buried his face in the soft silk, kissing at Arthur’s straining cock before reaching inside and freeing it. Arthur bit back a sigh as Charles slowly stroked up and down his shaft. “So gorgeous,” he murmured, “all dressed up for me.” He dipped his head down and took the tip of Arthur’s cock into his mouth. Arthur’s eyes fell closed and he arched into Charles’s mouth. It took every ounce of self-restraint he had to keep from bucking. Charles took him deeper, flattening his tongue against a fat vein that ran up the underside of Arthur’s shaft and then pulling off with a sudden, obscene pop. Arthur had to bite down on his own knuckles to keep from crying out, eliciting a devilish grin and wink from his lover. Charles rejoined him on the bed a moment later, but not before slipping out of his own clothes. It had been weeks since they had been alone together, and Arthur found himself on the verge of drooling as he took in the other man’s bare perfection. The lamplight lent his dark brown skin a bronze sheen, putting Arthur in mind of the gods of Olympus. He was Zeus, brought down from on high by Arthur’s Ganymede. Arthur melted into his arms and keened as Charles laid him out on the bed, placing sucking kisses against his throat.

“Please,” he begged, arching his hips upward to slide their weeping cocks together. Charles growled, wantonly and wrapped his big hand around the both of them, offering a few firm pumps before setting about the task of giving Arthur what he really wanted. He tossed aside the bloomers, but left the corset on, going into his satchel for a tub of petroleum jelly—in Arthur’s opinion, perhaps the single most important invention of the last decade. He slicked his fingers and teased at Arthur’s entrance.

“Ready,” he asked, gently. Arthur nodded and Charles sunk his finger inside him, soon following it with a second. He clearly relished the little sounds that rose from Arthur’s throat when he crooked and scissored them just so. “That’s right,” he laughed, “good, good.” He added a third finger, letting more breathless praises fall from his lips as he teased and stretched. Arthur let out an involuntary whine as Charles retracted his fingers, though he barely had time to be embarrassed before they were replaced by the unmistakeable probing sensation Charles’s thick cock-head. “God damn,” Charles grunted, sliding in as far as he could go. Arthur begged him to move almost immediately and Charles obliged. “Jesus, you feel incredible,” he panted, “so beautiful, and you take me so good.” Arthur wrapped his legs around Charles’s hips, driving him deeper inside until he hit that particular spot inside him that sent him reeling. Every nerve in his body seemed to ignite as Charles fucked into him and sent his eyes rolling back into his head. 

“I ain’t gonna last,” he mewled. Charles picked up his pace, each thrust showing Arthur just how thin the line was between ecstasy and agony.

“Come for me,” Charles pleaded, “I want to feel it.” Arthur cried out, shame utterly forgotten, clenching around Charles’s cock as he spilled himself all over his own chest and stomach. Charles wasn’t far behind, burying himself inside Arthur as he came, mouth open in a silent shout, thighs trembling. He collapsed beside Arthur on the bed, panting as he spread an arm over Arthur’s chest and nuzzled his face into the crook of his lover’s neck. Arthur closed his eyes and they lay together in blissful silence for a long moment. When he opened them again, Arthur noticed to his dismay the sticky blotches of pooling seed which now dappled his corset. 

“Damn,” he said, his disappointment apparent. Charles wiped away the worst of the stains with the corner of the bedsheet and kissed Arthur’s cheek.

“They have laundries in this town, don’t they?” They both laughed, and Charles carefully undid the fasteners and laid the article gently onto the floor, then brought the covers up over them both. Arthur turned onto his side and allowed Charles’s huge frame to envelop him. He fell asleep to the sound of the other man’s breath and the steady beating of a warm heart against his back.


End file.
